


sweetheart, they're suspecting things

by toph



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: !!!!, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Rivals, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Drinking, Fake/Pretend Rivalry, M/M, POV Victor Nikiforov, Romance, fake hating, reverse slowburn, whatever the opposite of fake dating is?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29915310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toph/pseuds/toph
Summary: “My publicist says a rivalry with you is good for my image,” Yuuri offers. “That I’m giving everyone hope.”Viktor laughs at that, but it’s not in a cynical way. He suddenly remembers the headline on that tabloid magazine.Viktor Nikiforov: King of Skating. If Viktor’s the king, then Yuuri’s Robespierre leading a peasant revolt.-Viktor is supposed to hate Yuuri. Problem being is that he really, really likes him instead.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 12
Kudos: 70





	sweetheart, they're suspecting things

**Author's Note:**

> me: wow i love rival aus and slowburns and fake dating and -  
> also me: i mean those r cool and all but what if they were opposite  
> also also me: what does that even mean
> 
> this fic is slightly inspired by [Make It Good, Make It Better by Jack_R](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8892871?view_full_work=true), which is my personal favourite yoi fic. and also [ A Strange and Complicated Thing by ungoodpirate](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12778842/chapters/29158668), which isn't a yoi fic but is responsible for my niche love of the "reverse slowburn" trope
> 
> title is lyrics from the song "people will say we're in love" from the musical "oklahoma"
> 
> rated m for descriptive makeout sessions, adult language, and technically underage alcohol consumption

The first time Viktor hears the name Yuuri Katsuki, it’s from the mouth of his coach. Yakov slaps a foreign sports magazine onto the bannister of the rink, where it’s folded to display a page about a Japanese (judging by the flag in the corner) figure skater. He has short black hair and is in the middle of a skating routine. His costume is flashy and elegant - a dark red bodysuit that shows off his calves.  
  
“He just won the Junior Grand Prix,” Yakov says. Viktor has long graduated from Juniors - a decision he made easily when he realized there was no real competition left there.   
  
Viktor raises an eyebrow. This must be big news if Yakov is telling him about it. “Is he good?”  
  
Yakov grunts in an affirmative tone. If he said something out loud it would be admitting to the fact that he wasn’t the only proficient skating coach. Figure skaters were a prideful group of people, in the same way that a group of flamingos is called a flamboyance or a group of ravens is an unkindness. “I’m getting Irina to send me a DVD of his skate. We’re going to watch it together and then I’m going to tell you how to beat him when he enters Seniors next year.”  
  
“Is he really that much of a threat?” Viktor says. Viktor thinks that he’s on the top of the figure skating world. He’s not wrong.  
  
The thing about being on the top is that it’s easier for people to knock you down. Those that stayed in the middle had the ground to support them, had the waiting arms of their companions to catch them, but Viktor’s only ever had air.  
  
-  
  
Katsuki is achingly hot under him. His body is on fire, like someone had doused the boy in gasoline and Viktor was the match that started it all. Viktor pulls on the back of Katsuki’s shirt where it’s tucked into his slacks and tugs it out in order to slide his palm up the now-bare small of his back.  
  
Viktor runs his hand up, up, and up over the notches of Katsuki’s spine, appreciating the gasping moan that Viktor feels reverberated in his mouth when he squeezes him closer. Katsuki has one hand wrapped around the side of his neck, pulling the taller boy down to be better able to kiss him and keep him there.  
  
Viktor doesn’t know who started it. One second they were standing quietly on the balcony of the hotel, peering down at the light-up city scape in front of them, looking at puttering cars and tiny people. The next second Viktor was pushed up against the cold poured concrete wall of the hotel with Katsuki wrapped around him and the warm, hot pressure of lips on lips.  
  
He’s barely ever spoken to Katsuki. Viktor had tipped his head and said “Congratulations on second place,” when he found Katuski standing on the balcony with only the wind as company. Katsuki hadn't replied anything then, just turned his head to look and fixed Viktor with a squinted gaze that probably meant he thought the reigning champion was being condescending. Clearly Katsuki, if he did harbour any resentments, was taking it out on him in quite possibly the strangest manner he’s yet to experience. Usually the other skaters just gave him dirty looks.  
  
Seriously, is he dreaming? Viktor has a boy pressing him up against the winter-freezed walls, holding him immobile and is being sedated (no, not seduced, they’re long past that) by Katsuki’s hungry, overpowering mouth.  
  
Nothing else seems to matter at this moment. Not the sponsors and the coaches and the other players standing inside holding flutes of champagne gabbing about topics Viktor has talked about a million times before (skating, skating, and more skating). Not the phantom pressure of their medals that seems to pull tighter and tighter like a noose around each of their necks (Viktor’s is heavier. It’s made of gold).  
  
Katsuki bites on his bottom lip and Viktor thinks he dies a little inside. His legs feel like jelly and it’s not from all the rigorous skating he’s been doing the past couple of days. If it wasn’t for the push of the body against his and the unmalleable wall behind him, Viktor would be slumped boneless to the ground. He pulls Katsuki closer to him, an almost impossible task given how close they were already, and thinks about what would happen if someone were to see them now.  
  
He can imagine thoroughly- a reporter walking out onto the balcony for a breather of cool air - she’s got her camera out, having just taken a picture of the processions - when she stumbles on the two best male figure skaters in the world, both stupidly young to hold those titles - engaging in a steamy makeout session that she sneakily snaps a photo of and sells a day later to a tabloid magazine. He can imagine the voice of his coach yelling at him for being so reckless and the cold, hard gaze Katsuki would give him from across the rinks that said, _stay away from me._  
  
Viktor pulls back and looks to his left. Katsuki takes this as an invitation to mouth at the now-stretched expanse of his neck. It’s very clear to Viktor that Katsuki has no such hesitations or is internally debating what kind of frenzy they would stir up if found like this. From his viewpoint, Viktor can see that the doors to the balcony are still shut and that no sleuthing reporter has stumbled in on them quite yet.  
  
Here’s the thing: Viktor wants this to go on.  
  
Here’s another thing: Viktor needs this to go on.  
  
Here’s the most important thing: Viktor can’t let this go on.  
  
He allows this thought to coalesce inside his head while Katsuki is sucking what is going to be a bruise into his collar. (For a brief second, Viktor worries about how he’s going to remove it. _Metal spoons and scarfs. A cold compress and a neck rub. The foundation he wears during competitions_ ). Viktor breathes out through his mouth and lets Katsuki continue. He then takes the hand that isn’t up Katsuki’s back and places it on the curve of his head to guide him back up to his mouth. Allows himself just one more second to feel and reciprocate the hot, engulfing taste of each other before he pulls back. Viktor takes his hands off Katsuki's body and lays them flat against the wall of concrete, palm down. It grounds him, makes him suddenly aware that he is his own person instead of the four-limbed (well, eight) mass he had turned into the past few minutes.  
  
Katsuki, to his credit, takes the hint at Viktor’s sudden apathy and disengages himself. He steps back, chin to chest and takes in a breath of non-Viktor air. On the exhale Katsuki breathes out, and it’s visible in the evening chill.  
  
Viktor’s glad for the weather, because he needs to _calm down._  
  
He bypasses that though. Slides his body in a side-step while Katsuki is standing there silent, probably just as suddenly uncomfortable as he is. Viktor picks something up off the ground which is barely visible in the lowlight. They’re Katsuki’s glasses, which fell off sometime between them staring out at the city and Viktor’s back hitting the wall.  
  
He hands them to its wearer, and their hands brush at the contact.  
  
It shouldn’t be awkward. They were literally just making out. It shouldn’t be awkward because they were literally just grinding up against each other. Viktor knows what his mouth tastes like and every ugly, wet corner of his mouth was mapped by his tongue. It shouldn’t be awkward, but it is because suddenly there’s a million miles between them.  
  
In the low light, Viktor takes in the way that Katsuki looks. His cheeks are flushed all the way down to his neck (it’s not from the cold), and his breath is coming in short pants. Viktor’s certain he looks the same, just as disheveled and startled.  
  
Viktor wants to say something meaningful. Something like, _I really liked that and I would also like to do that again, but with more privacy and less windchill._ Or maybe something more romantic than that. Smoother than that. Something you would expect from Viktor Nikiforov, a hot one-liner that leaves you drooling and panting. Instead he says, “You should tuck in your shirt.”  
  
Very hot.  
  
Katsuki tucks in his shirt. Viktor fixes the cuffs on his suit jacket. He presses his collar smooth and flat in a vain attempt to hide his burgeoning hickey. From his pocket he takes out a compact mirror and checks his face. Yep. Red-cheeked glory, swollen mouth. Has his hair frizzed in the back? Viktor can’t tell in these tiny things. He had it pulled up into a scalp-tight ponytail at the start of the banquet, but who knows if it still looks like that. He pulls the elastic tighter.  
  
Hopefully nobody notices the back of his head. (Viktor likes to think that people usually focus on the front).  
  
He slides the mirror shut and puts it back in his pocket. Turns back to Katsuki. Okay, maybe this time he’ll say something actually cool. Katsuki wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“I - um - I’ll see you at Worlds?” Viktor says, and it comes out as a question. It wasn’t supposed to come out as a question. It was supposed to be suave and reassuring, like a _Hey, stud, I’ll see you at Worlds because we’re both top figure skaters who want to make out with each other._  
  
Viktor thinks about that. _Stud? Oh God. Maybe this is a one time thing. Maybe he only wants it to be a one time thing. That’s fine too. I’ll probably still see him at Worlds. But I won’t “_ see” _him. That’s cool. Are these usually one-time things?_ _  
__  
_Who was Katsuki to be making Viktor think so hard about his self worth? Viktor thinks that he hasn’t been this self conscious since he was 12 years old and his voice was still cracking.  
  
Katsuki says, indifferent, “Yeah. I’ll see you at Worlds.”

Viktor’s unsure of how to interpret that. Did he mean _see_ him at Worlds? Or did he mean that they’ll just both be there because it’s their job? Before Viktor gets the chance to voice this concern, Katsuki is re-opening the doors to the inside and stepping in.. Viktor ignores the stop in his heart and watches as the glass-paned door shut with a flap of the ivory-white curtain. _It would be weird for the both of us to come back at the same time,_ he thinks. Maybe Katsuki was just being rational. _He didn’t even say goodbye._  
  
That’s fine. That’s totally cool. Chill. If that’s how Katsuki wants to play it, then cool. Viktor can be cool. He is the coolest, and everyone knows that. 

Viktor is left standing on the balcony alone.  
  
It’s cold out.  
  


-

There are many important facts to know about Viktor Nikiforov. The most important one is that he is the darling of Russia. This comes with a few provisions. One, that he has to be the best. He already is the best in Russia, and he’s only eighteen. The worst competition Viktor’s ever had to face is himself. Internationally, he’s still faring much better than some of the other long-term skaters. A prodigy on the ice, a model Russian skater.  
  
If Viktor were a matryoshka doll, his outward appearance would be that of a gold-plated elegant figure skater. (He’s not sure what would be on the inside. Skating is quite possibly the only thing that occupies him.)  
  
Viktor has been steadily climbing the ranks. He’s won the Grand Prix twice now, (“ _Bc all the other skaters were focused on the Olympics_ ” one user had written on an online skating forum, “ _and then after that they all retired. He’s a fluke, it’s just rlly good timing and he has like zero competition right now.”)._ He had medaled at those Olympics, so fuck you user ZamboniJamboree92. But they were kind of true in that last part. He had run out of good competition.  
  
Then along came Katsuki Yuuri, crawling out of the woodwork of Japan’s lacklustre skating community. He’s only a year younger than Viktor and managed to A-line straight from one win at Junior Worlds into the Seniors the next year. Katsuki is good. His step sequences are beautiful. His programs are brimming with emotion.  
  
Viktor’s better. Or at least, he can keep thinking that so long as he keeps getting gold. He has more jumps and a better rate of landing them. He has a natural grace, a natural balance, a natural talent.  
  
Natural talent can only get you so far.  
  
When Katsuki Yuuri got his first ever gold medal, that same day Yakov had approached him, Viktor should have known he was finally going to be up to a fair fight. Maybe it was arrogance, but he ignored it. He dismissed Katsuki, who was new to Seniors and sure to place low like other debuting athletes. He really shouldn’t have done that, because the margins between their scores were closer than Viktor has had with anybody else.   
  
And so Viktor practices. He skates backwards, building up speed. Faster, faster, and then faster until the world around him is a blur. He thinks about Katsuki Yuuri, and maybe the fact that he might also be practicing right now, halfway across the world and maybe at a more reasonable hour. He would not be underestimating him again.  
  
He thinks about the balcony again and the windchill. A vision of those white curtains shutting run through his mind again. Viktor has a split second to decide that _now_ is the time to jump. As soon as he does it, he realizes that it isn’t enough. The angle is off, his edges are unstable - his skate didn’t groove into the ice how he thought it should. Most importantly, his balance is off, and he ends up sprawled on the ice. He isn’t properly focusing.  
  
It’s fine, though. He’s fine. He’ll get it next time. A quad flip is like a triple flip except with another rotation. That’s how addition works. One of these days.  
  
He’ll debut it at Worlds to the surprise of everyone. It will be his _thing_ . Viktor Nikiforov, darling of Russia, master of quad-flips. He’ll smile down at Katsuki Yuuri, who will accept his silver medal with a grin. And then afterwards Viktor will talk to him, approach him, and Katsuki will say something like “Good game, now please let’s go make out in a hallway.”  
  
He gets up from the ice. He thinks about the sports magazine he saw the other day at the grocery store. _Viktor Nikiforov: King of Skating Dethroned by Japanese Upstart?  
  
_ Viktor likes competition. What he doesn’t like is a supposed blooming rivalry; especially with Katsuki Yuuri.  
  
He’ll see him at Worlds. 

-  
  
Nationals was boring. All the other Russians knew who was already going to get the gold. Even if he spent his entire routine standing in the middle of the rink yelling nonsense and doing a poor interpretive dance the judges would still give him first place. Europeans was a little bit more exciting, because at least those skaters had some idea of hope. He still beat them all anyways. A French man and a Czech guy were on the podium with him. What were their names, again?  
  
Viktor is 18 years old and is already tired.  
  
Worlds this year takes place in Los Angeles. Viktor’s never competed in America before, but he likes the flashiness of it. The climate is a lot warmer than what he was expecting for March, and everyone here is so loud and friendly. The lady that sat next to him on the plane was American, and she really enjoyed talking Viktor’s ear off about American pop culture and news that he really couldn’t care less about and seemingly get enough of. _Did you see that vampire movie, I loved it!_ And _Oh,_ she had said, _we got a new president in January._ And _The Steelers won the Super Bowl._ What the fuck is a Steeler. Or a Super Bowl. He doesn’t ask though, so he just smiles and nods and goes along with whatever she has to say. When the plane touched down (all the passengers clapped, which confused him), Viktor had never had that much practice making non-skating small talk before.  
  
He kind of likes it, in the same way you like your grandma when she keeps feeding you sandwiches and kissing you wetly on the cheek. The city itself is like a big old hug from grandma, because it was hot and suffocating.

Yakov checks them into the hotel. Viktor’s eyes scan the lobby. There’s a man talking on the phone that isn’t Katsuki. There’s a woman watching the news on the television, and she isn’t Katsuki either. The odds that Viktor would manage to be there at the same time as him were slim, but he likes to hold out hope at the idea of random encounters.  
  
His room is dark when he gets into it. He takes his skating costumes out from where they’re folded in his luggage and hangs them up. He’ll have to iron them later so they’re not all wrinkly for the competition. He takes his toiletries and shoves them in the bathroom. Calls the front desk and asks for a 7 AM wake up call. Viktor sighs and bellyflops onto the bed. He lays there for a moment, on top of the scratchy duvet cover and the crinkling of the mattress protector, listening to the beeping of the traffic down and outside his window.  
  
Viktor closes his eyes, and he thinks of the last time he heard traffic this heavy from this high up. It was on that balcony at the night of the Grand Prix Banquet. He groans something out of frustration. He tries not to think about that evening, but it’s been on a constant repeat, haunting him in his waking hours like some stupidly attractive dark-haired ghost. He reaches to grab the TV remote from the nightstand.  
  
Shitty Americans and their shitty TV shows. He flips through them - news, sports (none of them figure skating), gets distracted by a really long disturbing ad for a pharmaceutical drug that promises some of its users permanent erections, and reality shows and game shows. He stumbles on a channel of just telenovelas, which would be kind of fun to watch if he knew how to speak Spanish. He stares blankly at it for a little bit (Spanish really isn’t all that different from French) before getting bored. Settles on cartoon show about animals underwater.

It was a shame he finished his book on the plane. But here he was, alone with his thoughts in an empty hotel room with no one else to talk to. Yakov’s probably sleeping right now, drifting off to the staticky sounds of a televised round of golf or NASCAR race. He said they lulled him to sleep.  
  
Viktor thinks about Makkachin’s current stay at the dog hotel. He hopes her’s is better than his. He turns on his side, and imagines her lying on the bed with him. Warm, fluffy dead weight. He thinks about wrapping his arm around her, scratching her ears while she slept soundly and comfortably. He misses his dog.  
  
 _Fuck_ he thinks _I could just go out._ But it’s late, and the rink isn’t open for practice, and he can’t go out anywhere because he doesn’t know where anything is in this city. He thinks about going for a jog, but then he also thinks about his terrible sense of direction.  
  
There’s a pool here, right?

The water is quiet when Viktor enters the deck. There’s one other person here, a lady sitting in the hot tub who didn’t even look at Viktor when he entered. On the back of his neck -his hair is clipped in a knot- he can feel the breeze from the wind leaving goosebumps. Even though it’s L.A., it’s still an evening in mid-March and the last dregs of winter still haven’t given up.

He deposits his bathrobe and belongings on a lounge chair before diving in. Does a few laps from one end to the other. Viktor’s strong suit has always lied with frozen water, but he supposes that athletes all share the same rudimentary “fit” abilities.  
  
He wonders how long he can hold his breath for. _That’s like, a part of being an athlete. Strong lungs._ _  
_  
Viktor breathes in, then out, before taking one big gulp of air and plunging under. He hates the chlorine in his eyes, so they’re shut tight. He tries to imagine himself as dead weight, sinking down to the bottom of the pool like a boat anchor. He tries not to move his muscles as his brain counts the seconds up, up, and up, 31 - 32 - 33... How many seconds can he go for? What’s the world record? Do you think he’ll be able to beat it? It couldn’t be that hard to-  
  
His thoughts are immediately cut off by someone’s hands grabbing him from the bottom, pulling him up. Viktor breaches the surface and takes in a lungful of air and - oh wow, he really needed to do that. 

“What the fuck, Viktor,” says someone, and he can’t quite place who it is. Viktor’s eyes are pink and stinging from the chlorine, so he takes a second to try and wipe them off with his hands that are also wet.  
  
He opens his eyes slowly, the world still a little blurry. He blinks once, and then twice until there’s a well-defined form in front of him. A _very_ well defined form.  
  
“Katuski!!” Viktor says, “I was almost at a full minute!”  
  
Katsuki Yuuri, it turns out, was also suffering from the same Restless Athlete Syndrome as Viktor. Also, much to Viktor’s chagrin, the world record for holding your breath underwater is closer to 20 minutes, “and you were barely 1/20th there and already struggling,” Katsuki says.

“Rude.” Viktor replies. _Oh God, was that too mean? What if he hates me._ _  
__  
_His spiral is resolved when Katsuki smiles at him. It makes him look younger. Viktor smiles back and does his best not to make it look like his plastic-paparazzi one.  
  
Viktor is acutely aware that they’re the only men’s Senior skaters that are close in age to each other. He’s also aware that they’re currently being hotly debated on online forums and sports talk shows about who is going to win Worlds this year. He looks around on the pool deck. Jacuzzi lady is still here, but it looks like she’s passed out currently on a deck chair wrapped in ten-thousand pounds of itchy pool towels like a chlorine mummy.  
  
Viktor grabs his waist, and hopes that this is allowed. Yuuri lets himself be grabbed. Viktor says, “Hi.” in a sweet and innocent tone, and really hopes that this is allowed. Yuuri looks into Viktors eyes. Katsuki has very beautiful eyes, dark and expressive. He stares into them, letting Katsuki get distracted.  
  
Viktor takes the opportunity of chance, moves his hands from Katsuki’s hips to his shoulders and pushes him under the water.  
  
Seconds later Katsuki resurfaces, bashing and spluttering with water in his mouth. “Viktor!” he puffs.

“Simple, Katsuki, really.” Viktor says, “You pull me out of the water and then I push you in as payback.”  
  
“Rude.” Katsuki says, echoing Viktor’s words. He splashes him. Viktor splashes him back. Viktor laughs, and then Yuuri does too.   
  
They end up racing from one end of the pool to the other. Yuuri is faster than Viktor.

Katsuki explains his triumph when they’re both holding onto the ledge of the deep end, feet kicking to stay afloat. “I um, grew up in a hotsprings. You can’t really go swimming in them, but also the ocean was right there.”

Viktor appreciates the shy way that Katsuki says this, like he needs to defend his win.  
  
“Well I grew up in St. Petersburg, where the ocean is always cold and smells like shit.” Viktor offers out his right hand, the one that isn’t clutching the ledge. “Fair game, Katsuki.”  
  
Yuuri regards the proffered hand with scrutiny. “Yuuri,” he says. “It’s okay if you call me Yuuri, you know.” 

Viktor nods, “Yuuri.” he likes the way that it sounds. He takes Katsu- Yuuri’s hand in a firm handshake. Realistically, Yuuri’s hand is actually wrinkled and rubbery, but it feels like it does on Balcony Night - blazing hot.  
  
Viktor feels his ears go red at this, and hopes he can attribute it to the cold. Towel Mummy is still lying there- should they wake her up? Viktor thinks about Yuuri’s hand which is still in his. Suddenly he can’t bear the thought of letting go. The competition is in two days. He can have this, for now. 

“Did you um- want to come back up to my room?” Viktor asks, and he thinks about the various ways Yuuri could interpret it, “I mean, not for _that,_ unless you want to do that in which case I am totally down for, but the lady on the plane ride here wouldn’t shut up about a movie that sounded kind of interesting and honestly I’m kind of _freezing_ -”

Yuuri cuts him off with a tilt to his head, “Okay. What’s your room number?”  
  
Viktor gives it to him with a hidden sigh of relief.  
  
On the pool deck, their teeth chatter with the cold. Viktor really hopes they don’t get sick days before the competition. He wonders who would place on the podium with both of them out.  
  
In the elevator, Viktor keeps bending his knees back and forth in an attempt to get his blood pumping. Yuuri presses the button for his floor - 7 - and Viktor takes the time to mentally store that piece of information just in case it ever becomes relevant. 

When Yuuri gets off, he looks back at Viktor. “I’ll see you when I’m dressed.” he says, and Viktor, dumbly says, “Okay.” The elevator doors slide shut.

When Viktor gets back up to his room, he bounces around, unsure of what to do. He hops in the shower and rinses the pool water off. He scrubs his hair clean and prays that the chemicals haven’t damaged it. He thinks about what he should wear - it’s late, they’re not going anywhere. But, he also wants to look presentable. But also casual. What is Yuuri going to wear? He throws on sweatpants and the only clean t-shirt he’s packed.  
  
Viktor is in the middle of brushing his hair - methodically, temperamentally getting the knots out when someone knocks on the door. _Fuck Shit Fuck Shit._ How long did it take for Yuuri to get dressed? Viktor hasn’t even blow-dried his hair yet. Or put his acne treatment on. Or his hair mask. It’s fine. He’s fine. It’ll be dark enough. He remembers that Yuuri’s standing on the other side of the door, waiting for him. How long ago did he knock?  
  
He answers it.  
  
Yuuri is standing there with his hand in a fist that looks like he was about to knock again. He lowers it slowly, then says, “Hey.”

Viktor nods back, trying to be as collected as Yuuri. “Hey.” he waves, still holding his pink and sparkly hairbrush. He tries to hide it behind his back. “Come in.”  
  
Yuuri looks good. Thankfully he’s dressed just as casually as Viktor. His hair is still damp and sticking to his forehead.  
  
“Nice shirt.” Yuuri says. Viktor looks down at what he’s wearing and groans. He got it several years ago - 5 multicoloured rings criss-crossed to represent all the continents. “ _Paris 2006_ ”, it reads in a swirly font.

Viktor scrambles for what to say, “Thanks… I.. got it at the Olympics?” Again, with the stupid thing he does where he’s been ending what is supposed to be a sentence as a question. Yes, Viktor got it at the Olympics because he was there, and Yuuri probably already knows that. 

“How was it?” Yuuri asks instead, voice strained.

“The Olympics?” Viktor says, “It was a lot. Loud. Busy. I was only 15 then, and I only placed bronze.” _Only placed bronze at 15 years old. Jesus Christ, Viktor. Way to sound humble. Yuuri probably wasn’t even competing internationally yet._ “... But I guess we’ll see what happens next year?” he adds, because everyone likes to talk about the Olympics.

Yuuri nods, and then says, “Cool. What movie did you want to watch?”

“Oh, well, let’s see if I can find it.” Viktor says, ignoring the way that Yuuri obviously switched the subject. Was it better if they pretended like they weren’t competitors? He’s not sure what to talk about other than skating, so he takes the absorbed knowledge of everything he’s learnt from Sharon on the plane and talks about a movie.  
  
Viktor silently thanks the universe for its mercy in giving Viktor something to do with his hands as he flips through the channels in search of the hotel’s on-demand. Yuuri looks at the single queen sized bed in the room and sits on the top left side of it, his back against the nailed-in headboard. 

Viktor takes the right side. There’s an ocean between them and _it’s fine_. They’re just like, two bros chilling before the Big Game watching a movie. Even if that Big Game is a figure skating competition they’re both competing in and the movie is directed towards tween girls. They’re silent. Viktor knows he’s bad at small talk and can’t even offer any snacks because he’s on such a strict athletic diet. He supposes that if anyone understands that though, it’s Yuuri.  
  
Really it’s not even that bad of a movie. The acting is a little stilted, though. Viktor does appreciate the blue-tinted aesthetics of it, and also the male lead. It’s so cheesy that it’s good, and Viktor can feel himself getting weirdly invested in the contrived plot and the tonally off dialogue.   
  
Yuuri doesn’t feel the same. “This kind of sucks,” he announces part way through, pillow clutched to his chest still with his back against the wall.

“I mean, he’s a vampire.” Viktor replies from on his stomach, with his eyes still glued on the screen. “All he does is suck,”

“Not what I meant.”

“Well do you have any other suggestions for what we could be doing right now?” Viktor snarks back. 

“Yeah, I do.” Yuuri says. Viktor turns his head, and Yuuri is looking at him with something dangerous in his eyes. He takes the hint.

“Then show me.”

Viktor does know how it starts this time. He’s not as caught off guard when Yuuri pounces on him. He had enough time to roll onto his back, at least.

Yuuri kisses him with a hunger that devours Viktor whole. This isn’t like that time on the balcony- this is better. Less guarded, less constrained. Yuuri has his knees on either side of Viktors waist, hovering over him. Viktor runs one hand across his upper back as Yuuri grabs his face with both hands on either cheek to hold him steady as he bites Viktor’s lips.

Viktor grabs Yuuri and flips him over, so that now he’s the one on top. It’s his turn now. He remembers the way that Katsuki had cornered him on that balcony, and had vowed to do those things to Yuuri as much as Yuuri had done to him. Viktor pins him down and Yuuri sinks into the mattress.

Below him he hears a moan, and oh God does Viktor want this more than he’s wanted anything else in his life.  
  
He could have this forever, Yuuri underneath him, Yuuri on top of him -it doesn’t really matter now so long as it’s Yuuri and they’re touching. Both are good. It’s Yuuri that is the only factor in the _goodness_ equation. The world could crumble around them and it honest-to-God wouldn’t matter because Yuuri is here and it’s so damn much.  
  
Yuuri slides his hand in Viktor’s scalp and tugs at his hair, and _ohmygodohmygodohmygod_. Viktor lets out an ever bigger moan into Yuuri’s mouth. Viktor’s hair is long, and it’s silver, and while he’s experienced his fair share of people touching it (usually out of curiosity, and usually sans permission), it’s never been charged with the sensualness he’s experiencing right now. 

“Do that again,” he says into Yuuri’s mouth.  
  
Yuuri does, and he falls apart. He can’t even hold himself up anymore, and now they’re pressed from chest to hip. Viktor’s knee is between Yuuri’s thighs. He knows that between them they're both hard as a rock, but judging from the look of Yuuri he doesn’t care just as much as Viktor doesn’t. He wonders if he’s crushing Yuuri, but Yuuri’s panting underneath him and mouthing at his neck, and if he didn’t want this he wouldn’t be doing that.  
  
Before he could stop himself Viktor rolls his hips forward, and _ohmygodohmygodohmygod._ It’s good. It’s better than what it should be. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time. _It’s literally just some fully clothed grinding_ , his mind tells him, _it shouldn’t be this good._

“Is this okay?” Viktor says, using all his will to string out a sentence.

“Yes.” he hears, the man under him panting into his cheek. Viktor moves to press a controlled kiss to the top of Yuuri’s nose, a reflective gesture that juxtaposes their hurry. Yuuri tilts his head up and they connect mouths again, catching Viktor back up into speed. If Yuuri’s only here for the superficiality and impersonalness of what is increasingly becoming a hook-up, Viktor can only follow suit. They have no time for slowness and revelry. Their movements are so rushed they haven’t even taken off any clothes.  
  
Things move quickly after that. Yuuri pants into his ear and Viktor moans back and he’s glad that the headboard is screwed into the wall and hopes that it’s thick enough that the neighbours can’t hear.  
  
Afterwards, Yuuri says, tired and lying on his back, staring at the popcorn ceiling “I’m supposed to hate you.”

Viktor replies from the same position. They aren’t touching, but Yuuri’s hand is only a movement away from his. “I know.”

“We’re supposed to hate each other.”

“I don’t hate you, Yuuri. There’s not a part of me that does.” Viktor replies. He’s aware that there are scores of people that actively hate him. Mostly seasoned figure skaters he forced into retirement, or Juniors that never had the gall to face him in rank. Those he took the podium from, like Yuuri. “Do you hate me?”  
  
Yuuri is silent for a moment, then says, “No. I’ve tried to and it never works.”

Viktor hums at that. He turns his head and looks at Yuuri lying beside him. The TV plays softly in the background, still on that ridiculous movie- and Katsuki blinks slowly. He has dark, full lashes. Suddenly Viktor is self-conscious of the fact he doesn’t have any mascara on and his are naturally stark white. Yuuri opens his eyes and looks at him.  
  
“My publicist says a rivalry with you is good for my image,” Yuuri offers. “That I’m giving everyone hope.”  
  
Viktor laughs at that, but it’s not in a cynical way. He suddenly remembers the headline on that tabloid magazine. _Viktor Nikiforov: King of Skating._ If Viktor’s the king, then Yuuri’s Robespierre leading a peasant revolt. 

“I’ll take you up on that,” Viktor says, “but only in public, of course. And I expect payment in private.” 

“Deal, Nikiforov,” Yuuri says.

“I also collect interest,” Viktor teases, “but I’m willing to take prepayments.”  
  
Yuuri rolls closer to him, and Viktor meets him.

-

The phone rings. Viktor groans and answers it. “Hello?” he says into the line, and then realizes he said it in Russian.

The voice on the phone hesitates for a second, clearly not expecting a grumpy foreign language to greet him. It’s the front desk staff, reminding him that he requested a wake-up call this early in the morning.

Viktor thanks him and hangs up. Bleary-eyed, he lays there and thinks about how much sleep he’s gotten recently. Jet lag makes things worse, but Viktor also wasn’t expecting to be up all night with Yuuri in his bed. ( _Yes you were hoping that,_ the voice in his mind teases, _you just wouldn’t let yourself have it.)_

Viktor tries to remember when Yuuri left, wearing a borrowed pair of cookie-monster pyjama pants and holding his own strategically balled up ruined pants. He doesn’t remember the time, but he does remember the fact that Yuuri didn’t say goodbye and opted to instead pull him in for another kiss before leaving a stunned Viktor standing in the doorway like a beached pufferfish.

He gets up. 

The day goes by in a blur. Early morning warmups and pre-competition interviews. He eats lunch with Yakov and the other Russian skaters. He doesn’t run into Yuuri. He doesn’t talk about Yuuri. He does talk about _Katsuki_.

 _Katsuki_ is Nikiforov’s rival. _Yuuri_ is Viktor’s… Yuuri. He doesn’t have a name for it. It would be wrong to call them friends, because they’ve barely spoken to each other, too preoccupied with other pressing matters like their bodies against each other. And they’re certainly not boyfriends, because that has only happened twice.

And when an inquisitive sports journalist comes up to him and holds out a recording device, asking: “Do you think Katsuki Yuuri has a chance of beating you?”

Viktor replies: “I look forward to seeing Katsuki on the ice. Hopefully I’m looking from the top of the podium and he’s still down there.”

The reporter gives an appreciative smirk at his words, clearly drafting plans for an article centered around their so-called rivalry. 

It’s true. He does want to win. He likes the thrill of a competition, the crowd chanting his name, waving flags and handmade banners, and even in one case throwing a bra onto the ice post-routine like he was a rock star. (He didn’t pick it up.)

Practices didn’t have an audience to surprise. They didn’t have a score of shrewd judges analyzing his every movement. He likes being perfect, but he also knows there’s room for personal improvement. To everyone looking from the outside, he already is. Viktor has learned that he’d rather settle for performing a routine that is flawless rather than taking a risk on a jump he has not yet mastered. It’s gotten him this far. Falling is embarrassing, it's a scourge on his reputation. He only ever allows himself to do it when no one is looking. Viktor Nikiforov doesn’t miss a jump or touch down. Viktor doesn’t have anybody to catch him.

Yuuri isn’t like that, though. He falls and knows what to do to keep going. Viktor’s not sure what would ever happen to himself if he fell.

Viktor earns his place on the podium with flawless routines. Yuuri earns his with less than perfect. Yuuri could beat him, easily. If Viktor let himself be anything less than ethereal and Yuuri finally performed something without a single misstep there would be a new men’s champion figure skater. 

That thought scares Viktor, a little. He doesn’t dare tell the press any of it.  
  
-

“This seems familiar,” Viktor says, taking a swig from his glass.   
  
Yuuri’s back is against the wall, leaning and gazing at the perfectly polite crowd of people at the World’s Banquet. Yuuri had his shoulders slumped, but they went stiff at the sight of Viktor approaching him.   
  
“Hi, Viktor,” Yuuri replies.  
  
Viktor wants to tell him congratulations on second place, but he remembers the glare he received from Yuuri the last time that he did. So he settles for raising his glass instead in a silent toast. Then, he hands the glass over to Yuuri, who takes a sip of it without even asking.

“There’s alcohol in this,” Yuuri says. Poor, sober Yuuri. Viktor’s confident enough to persuade the bartender to give him something, even if he is technically underage. He misses Europe and their stupidly low drinking ages.  
  
“Vodka and Coca-Cola.” Viktor says, “A Russian drink and an American drink.”  
  
Viktor hasn’t seen Yuuri all that much since what he is now calling Twilight Night. (There was Balcony Night, and now there is also Twilight Night.) The competition had taken up most of his schedule, and really most of his headspace, for the past few days. But the season was over now and Viktor had no obligations. He won, he defended his title, and Yuuri Katsuki was still talking to him. If he held any resentment over Viktor, he was doing a very good job of hiding it.

“If you go ask the bartender with the blonde ponytail,” Viktor smiles, “she’ll make you something without even blinking.”

“No way.” Yuuri says.

“I am serious. Try it.”

Yuuri stalks away from the wall and returns a couple minutes later. He has a drink in his hand.  
  
Viktor laughs. He enjoys the sheepish way Yuuri is looking at him, holding up the glass like it’s the Holy Grail he just discovered. Viktor raises his own Holy Grail and they clink their glasses together in toast.  
  
Yuuri’s looks like coke, but he blanches a bit at the taste in a way too obvious manner. “Now go away,” Yuuri says lightly, “we’re not supposed to be seen near each other.”

Viktor says, “I know. Did you want me to make a scene? Give you a dirty look?” 

“Maybe.”

Viktor fixes Yuuri with a false angry face, his eyebrows pitched low and squints his eyes in an attempted glare. Yuuri fixes Viktor with one of his own. Viktor speculates if it’s genuine or not. 

“You owe me.” Viktor says, and walks off.  
  
He chats with a sports journalist from a nearby university. He shakes hands with a pot-bellied moustached man, who told him he was a delight on the ice and would love to make a deal with him about sponsoring a line of athletic wear. He asks one of the older Russian skaters, Annika from pairs, to get him another drink, not wanting to push his luck _too_ much. She comes back with an obvious looking fruity cocktail in a specialty glass, and he has to drink it quickly or else Yakov will spot him and yell at him. He sees Katsuki some more, posing awkwardly for photos, all hovering hands around waists, and him having stilted conversations with the same men in suits Viktor had been talking to.  
  
Sponsors ask him about his skating, and what he’s going to do on the off season, and what his training schedule is going to be like. He doesn’t have a good answer, and thinks about how he’s going back to Russia and his cold apartment. Maybe he’ll do an ice show. “Next season is going to be a tough one eh,” a lady with a set of matching gaudy turquoise jewelry says, and Viktor says something robotic in response.  
  
He winks at her, and she giggles a little bit. “If I was ten years younger,” she says, a delighted palm resting on his shoulder. 

“Nonsense,” Viktor replies, ignoring the fact that she’s touching him, “you’re like, twenty-five?” He hates himself for saying that. She’s apparently one of his biggest sponsors. He doesn’t know her name.  
  
“You flatter me too much.” she says and squeezes his bicep, “You’re such a flirt.”

Viktor Nikiforov, darling of Russia. Viktor Nikiforov, king of skating. Viktor Nikiforov, the heartthrob. He’s collected a lot of titles, but the last one has to be the least accurate. It’s a silly reputation, but one he had been encouraged to promote. The burgeoning title of Viktor Nikiforov, rival to Katsuki Yuuri also filters through his mind. What another ridiculous one. He’s made up of lies and titles.  
  
Yakov saves him. “Hello, Barbara, it’s a pleasure seeing you,” he says in his gruff voice to the lady. He looks at Viktor up and down. 

“Who let you have more than one drink? Your face is all red.” he says, in Russian so that the lady - Barbara- doesn’t understand.  
  
“Um-” Viktor starts. 

“No more drinks,” Yakov cuts him off. In English he turns back to her and starts talking about Viktor’s exhibition skate. Viktor allows them to talk about his spins or whatever they’re on about, because it gives him a moment to space out and look into the sea of people. The crowd’s thinned a little bit, but not by much. He doesn’t see Katsuki, but he does see his coach, a Japanese lady who had retired some years ago smiling delightedly at a group.  
  
“I’m going to the bathroom,” he announces, interrupting whatever they were talking about and walks off.  
  
Men’s bathrooms universally smell like urine, no matter how many gold-rated stars a given venue has. He wrinkles his nose when he walks in. There’s only one stall, and it’s occupied.

Viktor’s in the middle of washing his hands when he hears it. A single sniffle, coming from the occupied stall. He has ran into his fair share of crying athletes, but has never been very good with it at all. He’s sympathetic to their woes, but he doesn’t know how to handle it. Was he supposed to reassure them, offer a shoulder to cry on? It seems disingenuous to so. That’s what the reassuring words of coaches and the warm hugs from friends and family were for. Crying is ugly, it's embarrassing. Viktor’s bad at it. Both the comforting thing and the crying thing. He doesn’t want to make a fool of himself or whoever is in there. If he was nicer, perhaps, or less prone to hiding his own emotions he thinks he could help. But he can’t, so he tries to dry his hands quickly and hopes for a quick exit. If he pretends he didn’t hear, then he doesn’t have to deal with it.  
  
The latch to the stall door opens, and Yuuri is standing there putting his glasses back on. They weren’t expecting each other to be here, because they both freeze.

“Viktor?” he says in an uneven voice.

“Oh. Um. Hi, Yuuri. I had to pee.” 

Yuuri walks over to the sinks and turns the tap on. The water runs cold, Viktor knows, and he watches as Yuuri splashes it into his reddened eyes. He can only stand there and watch, resigned to catching and failing to come up with something nice to say. He can’t run away now that they’ve seen each other. Second place is a good place to be in, why would Yuuri be crying over that?

“There’s always next year..?” Viktor says with a lilt to his voice. “The GPF is in Tokyo then.” 

Yuuri stares at him blankly. Eyes squinted with confusion. It’s not the fake angry face they were making at each other earlier; it’s actually real this time, if not more muted.

“I’m sorry,” Viktor explains, desperately trying to say something better than that, “I’m really bad with people crying.”

“That’s fine,” Yuuri replies deadpan, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He nods hastily. 

-  
  


Viktor’s not sure who let him get a suite with a fully stocked minibar, but he’s thanking whatever force in the universe that led to this moment. Hopefully Yakov won’t notice the extra charges on the bill from the miniscule bottles of liquor. 

They had escaped together. It was like a heist mission, really. The bathroom was outside the banquet hall, and it only took a quick glance down the hall to see that it was void of people, particularly their coaches. 

“Yakov’s going to kill me for leaving early,” Viktor had said, leaving.

Yuuri digs in the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out his glasses, pushing them onto his nose. He looks Viktor up and down, now. He looks… clean. Composed. Smiling, a lot different from the scattered way he looked in the bathroom.

Yuuri unscrews the tiny cap from the bottle and chugs it down in one go. Viktor pauses to appreciate the curve of Yuuri’s throat, the way it stretched and his head tilted up towards the ceiling. “That was gross.” he says when he empties it, nose scrunched up and looks back at Viktor. 

Viktor distracts himself by grabbing another tiny bottle from the fridge and downing it. “Yeah,” he bletches, sticking out his tongue in disgust. Something inside Viktor is burning. He’s not convinced that it is the rum. 

Yuuri looks over at the haphazardly placed suitcase purchased on the bench, open with a thick paperback novel on top of a pile of unfolded clothing. He picks it up. 

“Good book?” Yuuri asks, studying the cover of it. 

Viktor blanches. “I uh- I haven’t read it yet.” he says. On the cover, a shiny-haired woman has her hand pressed to the bare chest of a muscular, square-jawed man. _The Viscount of My Heart,_ it says in a curly font. 

“You read these?” Yuuri says, and flips over the book to the backside to read the summary.

“Sometimes -” Viktor scrambles, because he was painfully aware that the target demographic for these novels were (presumably straight) adult women. “They help me get better at reading English.” he says, but that’s not really the truth. The real truth is that he reads them a lot, because they’re easily consumable trash novels that he could find at almost any airport in the world. They’re mindless enough that it preoccupies his time and he doesn’t have to expend any brain power on them. 

Yuuri opens up a random page and reads it out loud: “ ‘ _I was aware of the throbbing- ‘ ”_

“YUURI!” Viktor squawks, trying to grab the book from his hands, but he’s too slow and Yuuri moves away from him.

“ ‘ _heat between us, Viscount Willard’s roaming hands unlacing my corset, I could feel something stirring in my chest, my bosom-’”_

Yet again, Yuuri manages to evade another one of Viktors attacks. “You’re spoiling it, Yuuri!” he shouts. Yuuri moves to stand on top of the bed now, as Viktor scrambles to catch up.

“‘ _positively aching with desire. ‘Lady Priscilla,’ Viscount Willard said with a smirk, and then pressed his member against my backside, ‘meet Baron Willy-’”_

He tackles Yuuri. Really, he deserves it. The book flies from Yuuri’s hands, and they end up scrambling on the bed. Viktor doesn’t care where it landed. Yuuri’s laughing, his hand across his gut as he choked out a gurgled “ _Baron Willy_!” 

Viktor busts out laughing too, because it is kind of funny. His head feels dizzy, his limbs heavy but strangely light at the same time, like he doesn’t really have control over them. It’s a strange juxtaposition to his usual athletic self, where he is so aware of what his body is doing and its needs. It’s like viewing himself from the ceiling, observing from above. He’s curled on his side, staring at the beautiful boy who is laying with him, eyes closed in delight and laughter, unaware of Viktor’s current existential crisis. 

“I need more to drink.” he says instead, getting up and reaching towards the mini-fridge.

He grabs whatever drinks are left and lays them on the bed, where Yuuri is sitting cross legged down at the pile. 

“I’ve never really tried any of these,” Yuuri says down at the tiny “I don’t- I don’t normally drink.” 

“Sorry to be a bad influence, then.” Viktor replies. “I guess you’ve never played a drinking game?”

Yuuri shakes his head. Viktor hmms and thinks for a minute, and then retrieves a plastic cup that is usually beside the sink. He fills it up with a canned soda from the mini fridge - something clear and carbonated.

“This is,” Viktor says, “a Russian drinking game. There’s not really a point to it, other than to see who can survive the longest.” he says, “you have to take a sip and then replace whatever you drank with more alcohol.” Viktor takes a sip, and then tops it off with the first mini bottle. “Whoever can survive the longest is the winner.”

Yuuri takes a sip. It’s more pop than it is liquor at the moment, so it tastes fine. He fills it up with more of that mini bottle. “You’re on.” he says, “too easy.”

He passes it to Viktor, and then Viktor passes it back, and then they repeat until Viktor’s face is flushed red and Yuuri’s is the same. They both haven’t given up. The bottle of gin they were using was empty, and in its place was whiskey, which wasn’t a good mix at all. 

“Okay,” Viktor says, “new rule. Unofficial rule. We’re also going to play ‘never have I ever’, and if you have, you drink, but if you haven’t you can skip drinking. You start?”

Yuuri nods in agreement. “Never have I ever had long hair.” Yuuri says. Viktor drinks, and then replaces it with more whiskey. 

“Never have I ever been skinny dipping.” Viktor says. Yuuri drinks. (“Hot Springs” he justifies. “It’s normal to share a bathing pool.”)

They could make the whole game comparing their competitive careers with each other. 

Neither of them make use of it. “Never have I ever snuck out.” Yuuri says. 

Viktor drinks, “Yakov likes to keep an eye on me.” he says, refilling the cup. “Never have I ever kissed a girl.” Viktor says. Nobody drinks. It’s the clearest admission to his sexuality he’s ever given anyone. Perhaps this is all a long-con game to coerce Yuuri into spilling the gritty details about himself. 

Yuuri’s turn: “Never have I ever had a hickey.” he says.  
  
Viktor drinks, “Your fault.” he says into the cup. If there is any soda left in it, it’s barely noticeable. It’s gross, and Viktor’s throat burns; he can feel it in his stomach. “Never have I ever had to hide an embarrassing boner _.”_

Yuuri snorts and then drinks. Viktor takes the cup from him and drinks as well. “As long as I drink too I can say stuff I’ve done.”

“Okay. Um.” he searches for something to say, “Never have I ever . . . been in a relationship.” 

Nobody drinks. Okay. Good. They’re on equal ground here. Viktor's never had anything long-term. He hasn't had anything that's only lasted for a night before, either.

“Never have I ever had a hookup.” Viktor asks. It’s not a statement- it is a question, the insinuation being that if Yuuri drinks, he’s admitting to the fact that whatever they’ve been doing _is_ a hookup. Viktor waits for Yuuri to do something, reach for the cup or wait for Viktor to drink, but he stares back up at Viktor, face flushed. 

“Is this a hookup?” Yuuri asks, boldly. 

“Not if you don’t want it to be.” Viktor replies, “what do you want?”

“I want to keep seeing you.” Yuuri says, and it’s probably his haze of mind that is making him speak like this. 

Viktor says, “I don’t want this to be a temporary thing, Yuuri.'

Yuuri nods. “Me neither.”

“Okay,” Viktor says. 

Yuuri raises the cup, “to um- to us.” He takes a sip. His face scrunches in disgust. “This is gross.”

Viktor takes it and drinks it. “Yeah, it is. Do you give up?”

“No.” Yuuri says, and places the cup on the nightstand, “but I might need a breather.”

“Okay,” Viktor says again, and he leans in closer to Yuuri and presses their foreheads together. Yuuri tilts his head up and meets his mouth. It’s sloppy because they’re both drunk and neither of them care. Viktor hopes and prays that he’ll remember this tomorrow.

Yuuri parts. “What kind of music do you like, Viktor?” Yuuri says.

“Um-. Radio hits?” he says, mind fuzzy from the drunkenness of their make out session and the copious amount of alcohol he’s consumed. It’s better than saying whatever his skating music was, a response he used to give. He likes his skating music, but he’s never been too much into classical. 

“That’s just what people who don’t listen to music say.” Yuuri says, voicing exactly what Viktor was thinking. 

Yuuri fishes his MP3 player out of his pocket and unravels the cords to the earbuds. He gives one to Viktor.

The music Yuuri has downloaded isn’t in English, but Viktor deduces that it’s likely Japanese. The song he has chosen is catchy and upbeat, and even though he has no clue what anyone is saying he enjoys it. 

“Get up.” Viktor says. They’re careful not to let the earbuds fall out as they try to maneuver themselves vertically, and in order for the cord to rest comfortably they have to be pressed up close to each other. 

“This isn’t exactly a song for slow dancing, Viktor.” Yuuri says, one hand resting on his Viktor’s chest and the other on his waist. 

“Then don’t slow dance” he replies.

Viktor knows they both look kind of ridiculous right now, grinding up against each other like they’re at a silent disco except that the silent disco is a hotel room in California and they’re the only ones in attendance, and Viktor has to keep readjusting the cord to his earbud because it keeps falling out. They’re both stupidly drunk, but Viktor hasn’t blacked out yet. 

He takes a sip from the cup and gags. 

“You win,” Viktor says.

Yuuri takes the cup and brings it to his lips, and drinks from what was left in it, “And what do I get for winning?” he says when he finishes. 

“Whatever you want.” he replies. 

-

_BANG. BANG. BANG._

“VIKTOR!” someone yells at the door, and Viktor jumps awake. He recognizes Yakov’s voice, the heavy handed way he had knocked at the door with the side of his fist. Beside him, Yuuri startles awake and with squinted eyes gazes at the door. Yakov has a key card to his room, because of course he does, but Viktor had put the door chain on so Yakov could only peek a little bit inside. 

“In a minute, Yakov!” he yells back (in Russian). 

“Um,” Viktor whispers to Yuuri, “my coach is here.”

He’s not sure what he expects Yuuri to do, but he didn’t expect him to roll onto the floor space between the mattress and the wall in a futile attempt to hide himself. 

Viktor gets up and unlatches the door while tugging on the strings of his hotel robe tight, “Morning, Coach Yakov!” he says. 

Yakov scoffs, “ _‘Morning’_ ! Vitya, it’s almost lunch time.” 

Viktor winces as Yakov pushes himself into the room. Yuuri’s over on the far side, so he shouldn’t be able to spot him unless he walks over there. 

“You have an interview at 1, Vitya.” Yakov says, rubbing his jawline and looking around. “Hurry up and get dres-” he pauses, “-were you drinking?”

Viktor, because he’s a liar, says, “No.”

Viktor’s always been a very good liar. Yakov has always been the best at detecting those lies, especially when the evidence of it is sitting in a discarded pile on the nightstand in the form of a bunch of tiny glass bottles. Viktor takes this as a cue to try and push Yuuri’s discarded tie underneath the bedskirt while Yakov is distracted

“You drank this all by yourself?” Yakov asks, and it’s delivered like a rhetorical question, “Vitya-”

Viktor doesn’t know if he should lie or not. What’s worse - a lecture from Yakov on the pitfalls of alcoholism and inebriation, drinking yourself silly in a lonely hotel room - or - or admitting to the fact that Yuuri Katsuki is the third person in this room when they’re supposed to be despising each other's existence. 

The more Yakov looks around, the more it becomes easier to spot the evidence of another person. Yuuri’s MP3 player is sitting on the desk table. A second suit jacket is draped over the chair. Two cups of water are out. By the door, Yuuri’s Oxfords are sitting tidily, smaller than Viktor’s which are beside it. Yakov peers down at them.  
  
For the third time, Yakov asks a question, “Are you with someone?”

Viktor, because he’s a chronic liar, says, “No.”  
  
Yakov is a smart man. “You ran off at the banquet last night.” It doesn’t take much to place together the fact that Viktor disappeared the same time Yuuri had and there’s clearly someone in the room. 

Viktor’s shoulders slump. He knows Yakov’s not going to leave without answers, or even without Viktor behind him. Before he can do anything, Yakov steps forward and peers over the bed. Luckily, Yuuri’s face-down into the carpet so Yakov can only really see the back of his head, the messed up black hair, the crumbled sheets around him, but it’s enough to confirm Yakov’s suspicions that he’s looking at Yuuri Katsuki. 

“Mayumi is looking for you.” Yakov says in English. 

Yuuri groans into the carpet. “Hi,” he says, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell her where I am.” 

Yakov grunts noncommittally. If Viktor didn’t know any better, he would think that Yakov was almost delighted at the series of events before him. He seems almost cheery, peering down at Yuuri and back at Viktor with a strange glint in his eye. 

“Yakov-” Viktor says, and then stops himself. He’s at a loss for words. 

“Go take a shower, Vitya. And then meet me in the lobby in thirty minutes,” Yakov says. Yuuri sits upright, the sheets of the bed still draped over his bare shoulders. “And you,” he switches into English, “go find your coach. She’s worried about you. You both have careers to attend to.”

Yuuri nods. Yakov leaves with a slammed door behind him. Viktor is left standing in his briefs unsure of what to do.

“He’s right,” Yuuri says, standing to stretch his arms up, the sheets falling off around him, “we have obligations.” 

Viktor breathes in once, “Okay.” 

Yuuri comes up to him and places a hand on his bare chest to feel his exhale. Yuuri can feel his breath, his beating, rapid-fire heart.  
  
“Yakov won’t- Yakov doesn’t care.” Viktor says, and shakes his head, “he really doesn’t. I'll talk to him.” 

“Okay.” 

Yuuri leans up and kisses Viktor. It’s softer than what he’s used to receiving, nicer and gentler in the mid-morning light. It’s simple - just the warm press of lips, not hungry, not ferocious - but _sweet_ . It makes something inside Viktor flutter, the pits of his stomach do loops, and he cups Yuuri’s jaw gently, presses back, and hopes that it can last forever.  
  
Viktor’s mouth is stale inside, their breaths together are likely horrendous, Viktor's sporting a mild headache, but it is definitely the best kiss he’s ever had in his life.

They part. Yuuri steps back and searches for his shirt and pants that are on the floor. He buttons them up and then slides on his shoes, sans socks. 

“I’ll see you, Viktor.” he says. 

“Okay.” he replies back. 

“Bye.” Yuuri says. 

“Goodbye,” Viktor repeats.

-

To: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
From: katsukiyu91@live.jp  
SUBJECT: pants  
  
I still have your pants (☉∀☉) … they have cookie monster on them.  
  
  
To: katsukiyu91@live.jp  
From: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
SUBJECT: re: pants  
  
U make me sad. i like those pants. plz give them back or i will tell press about how evil u r 4 stealing them when i was at my most defenceless.

To: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
From: katsukiyu91@live.jp  
SUBJECT: re: re: pants  
  
YOUR most defenceless??You made me walk thru the halls of the hotel wearing them bc u ruined mine. Not my fault. ಠ_ಠ

To: katsukiyu91@live.jp  
From: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
SUBJECT: re: re: re: pants  
  
i think it was a little bit ur fault. ;)

  
-

To: katsukiyu19@live.jp  
From: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
SUBJECT: bad dog  
  
makka decided that my book was her own personal chew toy. i buy her fancy toys from the dog boutique but apparently her favourite thing to eat r my books  
pic attached, notice the guilt in her eyes

makkachintheterror.jpeg

To: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
From: katsukiyu19@live.jp  
SUBJECT: re: bad dog  
  
You should be thanking her, Viktor. Those aren't good books (＞ｙ＜) . Give her pets for me and tell her shes a good girl   
  
  
  
-

To: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
From: katsukiyu91@live.jp  
SUBJECT: XD  
  
I think some people may be on to us . . . (o_O)

https://ice-slash.livejournal.com/140916.html 

To: katsukiyu91@live.jp  
From: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
SUBJECT: re: XD  
  
that is the most ridiculous thing I’ve evr looked at. no way would I do that in a sk8ing rink its way 2 cold!1!!!! 

-

To: katsukiyu91@live.jp  
From: vmakkachin@mail.ru  
SUBJECT: vancouver 2010

r we allowed 2 talk about the olympics? i dont know. sometimes when i talk about skating u don’t reply. i guess u don’t have to reply to this if u dont want to. nyways i hope 2 c u there. is that weird? i’m sure ill c u at the GPF before that but.. the olympics is kind of a big deal. yakov and i are still working on my program for this season. he says i shuld take it slow. he also told me not 2 b “talking with the enemy” but ur not my enemy. he knows we email sometimes. its going 2 be a busy season... would it be weird to say that i miss you? because i do. 

**Author's Note:**

> come bug me on [tumblr](https://kuragin.tumblr.com/) <3
> 
> i have no idea how long this fic will end up being or when the next update will be, but you can expedite the process by commenting <3


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